Holding Her Close
by swans-a-melting
Summary: After the tragic events of 3x05, Cora Crawley finds herself clinging desperately to Sarah O'Brien for comfort. *Contains spoilers for S3* Cora/O'Brien. One-shot.


Cora's youngest is dead.

The grief ages her and weathers her face; casting lines upon it that you're certain were never there before. The cheeks become hollow and pinched, and always death mask white, save her nose, which is pink. Pink, from the soreness that can only be made after endless handkerchiefs have been sobbed into, for minutes, hours, days on end.

The black of her mourning gowns make her appear even paler than she really is, throwing sharp relief upon the purple shadows that smudge the corners of her eyes. Never has she looked so bad, never before has she seemed so fragile, not even in the days after her terrible fall, or after she was recovering from the Spanish flu and temporarily wracked with guilt that Lavinia Swire had died and not she.

It appears to you she is constantly on the verge of tears, but what woman wouldn't be, after the death of her beloved youngest daughter? And there is nothing you can say to comfort her. How can you? The words of your condolences stick in your mouth, sound clumsy, even to your ears. There are some things that even endless streams of bleedin' cups of tea cannot cure.

You can only wrap her in your arms and hold her. The sudden familiarity you share is not unwelcome. Now, she calls you Sarah. She _lets _you hold her. Sometimes she even produces a tiny smile for you.

She hasn't smiled much, since Sybil has gone.

And now she needs your arms and your comfort more than ever before; she cast Robert out of her bed the very night her baby died, distanced herself from him, pinned all the blame and anguish, vented all of her anguish towards him, and now it is too late to turn back. The small, rational part of her knows she is being foolish, they, as husband and wife should only be clinging to each other, supporting each other and mopping their tears, but she's still too angry, and far too proud to ask Robert back now.

And so she clings to you instead. You stroke her dark hair as she curls into you, allowing her to soak the bib of your frock with her tears and clutching at your hands. You wonder if all maids and their mistresses are like this. You wonder if all mistresses are like Cora Crawley. You doubt it.

"Oh Sarah," she says one day as she sits at the window, head tilted back against the glass. It is sunset and the orange glow that shining through illuminates her hair. It looks like her head is on fire. It gives you a funny jolt even now as she addresses you by your Christian name. It's something to do with being addressed as O'Brien for so long. That, and the way that she rolls out her R's, extending them out over her tongue.

"Yes milady?" You should call her Cora now, she's asked you to, but sometimes you still forget.

She says nothing, just looks at you, huge blue eyes filled once again with tears. _Christ almighty. Tears again._ But you aren't the woman you once were. You won't clutch her close and then go grumble to Thomas about what Her Majesty was up to. (Even if you were talking civilly to Thomas at the present time, you wouldn't moan. It would be too cruel.)

(Although, truth be told, you find yourself missing those moments of sullen camaraderie, sharing a quick fag together far out of Old Hughsie's sight in the far corner of the yard and enjoying scathing comments about the days affairs.)

She continues to look beseechingly at you with those goddamn beautiful kitten eyes, far wider and more emotion filled than any human's eyes should be allowed to be. You look at her looking at you, and you melt, wondering why you turn to putty at her touch, why your friendship wasn't cemented lie this so long ago. It had to take tragedy to bring you together.

With a long sigh you unfold your arms and allow her to (once again, once again!) cuddle into you. "I miss them," she breathes. "I miss both of them. Robert and S-Sybil." Her breath hitches slightly as she mumbles her daughter's name and you grip her even tighter.

"Do you think I can ever have either of them back?"

Damn that Countess and her huge kitten eyes. Damn the way she gazes at you, as if she's a girl and you are her mother, the wielder of the key to all the knowledge in the universe.

"You can 'ave 'im back," you say softly. "If you want 'im. He's your 'usband after all. But Milady – _Cora_," (you may as well call her it, she needs it now), "someone 'as to make the first move. You've both got to accept, and forgive. It was neither of your faults that Lady Sybil…passed away."

You bite down on your lip, doing your best to exercise tact. "You need to talk to each other." This advice seems rather lame to you, but Cora appears to digest it, and like what she hears, for she slides further down into your embrace, so that her head is on your lap. You ignore the electric thrills this suddenly begins to give.

"It wasn't Robert's fault, not really," she agrees. "Was it anyone's?"

"No," you assure her. "No, it was not."

Your fingers stray down the side of her face, gently cupping her cheek. It's a good job you're both sat on the couch or you'd have both ended up sliding onto the floor.

"And Sybil, my Sybil?" she asks eagerly. "Can I have her back, like Robert, if only I try hard enough?"

You continue to stroke her hair, her cheek. You can feel her relaxing under your fingers. Some things you know better than anyone.

"I think we both know the answer to that one, Cora." She closes her eyes. She opens them again. She sits up, and nods, slowly and sagely, resigned to the facts of the whole horrific affair at last. She has heard you, Sarah O'Brien, mere lady's maid say it, and it is only now that she fully accepts her baby's death.

"Thank you Sarah," she whispers. "Now I know it to be true."

And then she leans forward, and kisses you. Your hands find her bodice, feeling the black lace along the edge.

"And I find myself," she murmurs, "wanting you."

_Damn that beautiful Countess with 'er honeyed tongue and huge kitten eyes. How were you ever to resist her? Well. You obviously weren't._

Fin.


End file.
